


Before the Fall

by IndigoRiot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And events leading up to its fall, Arlathan, Elvhenan, Everything is sparkly, Featuring the rise of Arlathan, Just not bald yet, Life before the veil, Solas is an Egg, The Veil (Dragon Age), lots of rambling description
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-01-23 14:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12509360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoRiot/pseuds/IndigoRiot
Summary: Mythal would always remember the day he came into their lives.He changed... everything.For better or worse, who could say? And she could no longer tell the difference between the two. But through some act of fate or chance - she could never decide which - he came into their lives and nothing was ever the same again.





	1. Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Don't mind me, I'm super late to the DA fan-fiction party. I've been playing around with a few ideas and head-cannons I have for Arlathan before-the-veil, mostly writing for relaxation purposes and thought I might as well share it with you. Anyway, this is Just a little preface. A little nervous to be posting my first story here - next chapter to follow shortly! Hope you enjoy!

Mythal would always remember the day he came into their lives.

He changed... everything.

For better or worse, who could say? And she could no longer tell the difference between the two. But through some act of fate or chance - she could never decide which - he came into their lives and nothing was ever the same again. He was the driving force behind all that happened - or was he simply the catalyst? He was the only one with the skill and power through which everything was possible, it was true.

Well, it mattered not. What was done, was done. All that remained was this:

She would remember.


	2. Rising Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the Pantheon of Nine, in which Andruil bites off more than she can chew.

It was a bright and beautiful midsummmer’s day - in those early days, it was always midsummer in Mythal’s domain - and upon the cresting cerulean waves that sheltered her home, sunlight fell. It glimmered and gleamed and glanced off the water, casting off a dozen irridescent hues and a dozen more again, until it seemed that all the world was aglow with the sheer mystery of light. The rythmic to-and-fro of waves upon the golden shore was a lullaby, and time stood still. It was perfect harmony, a union of stillness and motion in which each transient moment stretched out forever and forever and -

For far too long, if the stormy look upon Sylaise’s face was anything to go by. Sweet, kindly, patient little Sylaise, the apple of Mythal’s eye, sat cross-legged on the sand with a pout on ruby lips and a tempest’s fury across her brow. She was a perfect contrast to her surroundings. Beautiful, yes, but terribly so.

“Come now, my sweet,” Mythal coaxed, kneeling down beside the youngest of her two children. “You shall make it rain if you continue to glare so.”

“I shall never,” Syliase returned petulantly, bringing her knees up to her chest. “Nor hail nor shine nor sing nor change in any way. Not like you and father can. Not like Andruil.”

The young elvhen child glanced across the shoreline to where her sister was. There Andruil stood up to her knees in water, dancing to-and-fro with the undulating waves and raising her long arms. In one hand she held an elegant bow, gifted by her father, Elgar’nan, and bearing his resplendant mark. As Andruil moved her other hand the waves crested and, as though of their own volition, leapt forth and took the form of an animal; first a sweeping, graceful crane, and next a sparkling, galloping horse which soon became a lion that shook its shimmering, watery mane and roared with the strength of several oceans. Each water-borne creature Andruil slew with an arrow of nothing but air and it perished, returning to the sea from whence it came with a splash and a twinkle of light.

The young huntress grinned and giggled, wild with glee, before casting her spell once again. This time, a brilliant aquamarine dolphin rose forth and Andruil was content to let it roam around her for a time, melting indiscernably back into the waves before it leapt into the air once more.

Sylaise sighed despairingly and hid her face behind her knees, but not before Mythal spied the solitary tear that slid swiftly down her cheek and fell upon the porcelain skin of her arm. Mythal sighed too and lay a hand upon Sylaise’s burnished, copper locks. She mulled over what words might calm the storm of her daughter’s mind.

But there were none.

And Sylaise’s fears were Mythal’s also, in more ways than the young girl could know.

It was unheard of for one of the elvhen to come into their magic so late. Born to those who had crafted from the fade the very land their people walked on, it was a tragedy. Andruil came into the world screaming bloody murder - and unintentionally committing it too, until Mythal and Elgar’nan had found a better outlet for her moods in hunting - and even the lowliest servant or slave could kindle fire, knit wounds and muster basic illusions, but Sylaise could not even summon the simplest of sparks.

Yet.

There were few worries which kept Mythal up at night, but this was perhaps the largest of all.

For Mythal had seen a glimpse of every future laid out before them, each twisted branch upon the tree of their lives. Justice was her nature, it was true, but foresight was the first of her talents. She could see quite clearly the magic her little girl may one day wield and guess at the fruit it might bear. Sylaise had sprung into this world beneath her family’s glorious shadow and Mythal knew all too well how wicked things flourished in the dark.

Still; Sylaise was young and seldom given over to jealousy. She possessed many fair and sweet traits that Andruil knew not. Perhaps, Mythal decided, it was time to remind her of these.

Gently, the All-Mother stretched out one long finger and beckoned her daughter’s tear towards its tip. There it went, and there it sat; a tiny drop of salt and sadness, a perfect opportunity. In those early days, all things were subject to the will of those who were powerful enough - or persuasive enough - to make it so. It just so happened that Mythal was one of the most powerful their world had ever known. She was among the first to forge her body, among the first to place her feet on solid ground, to beckon change. Mythal beckoned that change again, willed for something beautiful to be born of her daughter’s sorrow and doubt, and so it was. The tear became a pearl.

“Come child,” Mythal instructed. “Hold out your hands.”

Sylaise turned slightly and peeked through her burning locks, but did not loosen the vice-like grip she held over her knees. So Mythal waited, patient in a way only those who are ageless and immortal ever can be.

Eventually, curiousity won her over and the small elvhen child stretched out pale hands into which Mythal placed the pearl. The girl waited and watched it intently, but nothing happened. A few moments passed and still the pearl remained seated in the palm of her hands, quite ordinary and stubbornly so.

Sylaise shot her mother a look. “What am I waiting for?”

“Heavens if I know, child,” Mythal laughed, “it shan’t sprout wings and fly on its own! Tell me,” she continued, when all Sylaise did was continue to look confused and forlorn in equal measure, “what is it you hold?”

“My tear, enchanted,” she answered.

“Wrong.”

Sylaise began to smile ruefully, and rolled her deep brown eyes. She knew all too well her mother’s games. “Very well. It is a pearl.”

“Good. From where did it come?”

“Your magic.”

“Wrong again.”

“My own eyes, sprung forth from sadness.”

“And again, wrong. Not to mention too poetic. Be more literal.”

Sylaise sighed. “Fine. It is a pearl. I suppose, then, that it must have come from an oyster or another such creature of the deep.”

“Better. Now, what do you suppose it is doing here?”

The girl glanced down at the tiny pearl sitting in the palm of her hand, and shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps it is lost.”

“Perhaps,” Mythal laughed again and stroked her daughter’s hair. “If so, would it not be a kindness to return it to its home?” she asked, gesturing to the ocean before them.

Sylaise pondered these words for just a moment, then she slowly rose to her feet and stepped softly towards the shore. In walking, she moved with the effortless grace of the elvhen. At her waist she held the tiny pearl, cupped in careful hands. She did not hesitate when she reached the shore but stepped neatly into its waters, her skin white and shining against the azure depths as though she were a pearl herself.

It happened in an instant. No sooner had she lowered the pearl beneath the waters than it erupted in a burst of light. It spanned across the width of the ocean before them and the land behind within the blink of an eye, all pale and pink and gold and glittering. Then it was gone, and in the space where the pearl had been, a flower began to bloom. Its petals were softer than any silk or velvet to ever have graced the gentle form of noble women, and they were of the most incredible colour, too: deepest blue and shimmering rose; sunrise and starlight all at once.

“Oh...” Sylaise breathed, her previous sorrow all but forgotten in the beautiful wake of Mythal’s spell. She looked back over her sholder towards her mother with wide and inquiring eyes, but then something more amazing happened and stole away whatever words she might have said.

All manner of creatures - of the air and of the sea and of the land - began to flock towards the place where Sylaise knelt along the crystalline shore, searching for the origin of the magical surge. They were not curious spirits drawn in by the allure of emotion and magic nor the phantom illusions of Andruil’s casting, but real creatures of feather and fur, flesh and bone. Koi of crimson and sapphire danced a melody through the waves around her while birds and butterflies of every description flittered and fluttered through the air in a cacophony of noise and colour, a warm and gentle southern wind beneath their wings. So taken was Sylaise by gazing into the skies that she did not notice the small, white fawn approaching her - trembling and unsure of its young feet - until it had laid its head upon her lap. And it was then that she noticed the other creatures all around her, pawing at the sand; lion and lamb, hawk and hare, neither at odds with the another but simply letting each other be.

Sylaise was overwhelmed.

For a while she simply sat and stared, lost in the wonder of it all. Then, she tentatively began to move around the gathered throng, stooping here or there to stroke the back of a silk-soft rabbit, or else extend an arm for songbirds and starlings to perch and trill a cheery tune. She wore a living ornament of butterflies and beetles about her shoulders. In her firey hair, dragonflies sat and glinted like dark gemstones in the light.

Meanwhile, across the shore, the waters around Anduil’s feet slowed to a deathly stillness. She stopped her casting and stared at Sylaise through eyes narrowed with either deep thought, or jealousy. Perhaps both.

Andruil was superior to her sister in almost every way. Her bearing and cunning and magical prowess were greater. Despite her age, her name and stature among the people were greater, too - almost equal to that of her revered parents. Moreover, Elgar’nan himself - ruler of their kingdom, protector of the people and deliverer of vengeance - favoured Andruil over her sister. But in this one aspect she always fell short: the blessings of the goddess of Justice and Motherhood. Her own mother, no less.

So while Andruil spent her days casting beautifully complex renditions of animals to chase and hunt, it all went unnoticed by the All-Mother who, apparently, preferred to lavish affections on her other daughter, the one who could do nothing but sit on the shore and weep. It was pathetic.

Andruil hated them both for it.

Eventually, Sylaise looked towards Mythal again and she found her threading fingers through the mane of a tentative doe, the blackness of her hair a brilliant contrast to the doe’s palest brown. When Mythal caught her daughter’s eye she found a great sadness there, hidden behind the wonder.

Sylaise slid the petals of the flower between her fingers, feeling their impossible softness as she spoke. “Mother, this is... beautiful,” she concluded simply. “But it is not my doing.”

“What do you mean by that, child?” Mythal probed gently.

“It is your magic that summoned these creatures, and I am grateful,” she clarified. “But... I have done nothing.”

Mythal tutted and shook her head. “Nonsense, Sylaise dear. Do you not see?” she asked, waving a hand to gesture at the animals. The doe she was stroking took fright at the seeds of her impatience. It moved to shelter behind Sylaise, trembling slightly. It calmed instantly at the girl’s touch.

“See what?” Sylaise asked, confusion clouding her eyes.

“It is my magic which brought these creatures to my shores, yes,” Mythal explained. “But it is not the reason they stay.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They stay for you, child.”

“...Me?”

“Yes, you,” Mythal affirmed, smiling indulgently. She began to step slowly towards her daughter, yet for all her gentleness the creatures stirred and made to move away, save for those closest to Sylaise. Only in her presence were they calm; in her shadow they knew no fear.

“What do you mean?” Sylaise questioned, blinking with confusion.

“It is your heart,” Mythal replied. She tucked a lock of Sylaise’s burning hair behind one ear before continuing. “You have a beautiful heart, Sylaise. You inspire not fear, but love. Not hate, but acceptance. Not rash action, but gentle patience and kindness in all things. Disregard these qualities not, for the future of our people lies not in the wonderous magic of creation and change nor in fiery wrath and cold judgement, but in souls such as yours, my love, who embody all that is good and right in life; who preserve the essence of who and what we People are, and what we should be. Remember this, for it is a magic all your own.”

At these words, tears began to roll down Sylaise’s cheeks for the second time that day, yet they were not tears of sorrow but of joy. For one who had grown up in the shadow of her forebears, fearing the shame her lack of magic might bring them... hearing that her mother thought so highly of her was everything.

A single tear fell upon the petals of the flower and the last wonderous work of magic for that day came to pass.

At first it felt like a gentle breeze that rippled gently between its petals. Then it grew and grew until the flower fell apart entirely and Sylaise was left cradling a tiny hurricane of petals and glimmering dust, of rising suns and twinkling stars between her outstretched palms. Soon, the little flurry began to spread ever wider and within the blink of an eye it had wreathed her head, her shoulders, her outstretched arms. It became a bustle of moths with shimmering wings. It became a mass of butterflies trailing starshine. It grew soft, dark and feathered, and it sang - oh it sang the most hauntingly beautiful of songs.

Sylaise breathed a sigh of wonder and stared up at the lone bird fluttering through the air, its flowing feathers a dark blue-black that glinted subtlely in the sunlight.

“Well, that was... unexpected,” Mythal said slowly, watching the dark little bird with keen eyes as it fluttered around her daughter’s head like a halo.

“Oh, mother, it is beautiful,” Sylaise exclaimed, clapping her hands as the tiny creature came to perch first on her shoulder, and then atop her head. It was a creation born of magic, that much was clear. “Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me, child,” Mythal said in reply, laughing despite the puzzled line at her brow. “This is not my doing.”

A look of slight confusion passed over the girl’s delicate features, then her mouth fell open into a perfect little ‘o’ as she came to the whispered conclusion that “...It was me.” And then she laughed with joyful disbelief and cried, “It was me - It was me! Oh mother, was it me?”

Mythal’s eyes crinkled at the sight of her daughter’s delight and she found she could not dampen its spark. She could not truthfully say whether Sylaise had willed the winged thing into being or not - she had felt no stirrings in the fade nor pulling at the latent energies around her. So far as she had seen Sylaise had not wished for anything, and the magic of creation so rarely happened on its own: the will of a creator was a baseline requirement. Yet, such was the nature of their world that many things remained unexplainable. She concluded, therefore, that it was possible Sylaise might have created the bird and thought on the matter no longer, indulging her daughter with an enigmatic smile and a simple, “Perhaps.”

As the evening went by and brilliant azure skies gave way to a dusky orange, Mythal’s gathering of animals drifted away one by one and the young sisters exchanged places along the coast. While Sylaise frolicked among the waves with her little bird, Adruil retreated back to the sandy recesses of the shore to skulk and stare. In those early days she was a sullen sort when displeased, and in all honesty the huntress never really grew out of it save that, with time, her impetuous demands became divine decrees that her unfortunate people would die to obey - but that is a story for another day.

Before the skies had darkened entirely, a messenger recalled Mythal back into her shoreline temple. Some business regarding a disagreement with the Stone Folk over land claims just south of her borders had quite suddenly gotten out of hand. Apparently, an aspiring architect had decided to lift part of a mountainside into the air, not realising that said mountainside was some temple or other devoted to their Stone. Though foolish, it was a simple mistake and easily rectified, but in retalliation the Stone Folk had sent earthquakes to a nearby settlement and elvhen blood was shed. A company of elves were en-route to their undercity, amassing for retaliation. It fell to Mythal to quell the skirmish before Elgar’nan got wind of the issue and called for a purging of the continent. Again.

And so it was that Mythal mounted her dragon and left her daughters on the twilit beach, one playing and the other prowling, unaware of the gathering darkness between them. She did not know the extent of Andruil’s jealousy until it was too late, for Andruil had hated Sylaise’s despondency, but she hated her delight even more. So the huntress waited and watched until she could watch no longer; until her mother’s back was turned and she was borne across the ocean; until the sun had cast its face beneath the horizon and there was no one left to witness her crime.

Then, she let her arrow loose.

It struck the small thing between the ribs with the silence of a kiss. The poor creature had not the time to shriek or cry. Sylaise was not even aware that anything had happened until it burst mid-flight, shattering into fragments of feather and dust and the glimmering essence of magic. She watched, wide-eyed and stricken with disbelief, as the tiny creature that had briefly brought her so much joy and hope for the future evanesced into the skies.

Andruil watched too, with the twisted satisfaction of one who revels in the pain of another. She watched as the smile vanished from her sister’s face to be replaced by anguish and confusion. She watched as Sylaise’s dark eyes cast about the shoreline, searching for reason and cause. She stiffened as those dark eyes fell directly on her and narrowed with a ferocity Andruil had not expected. For the briefest of moments, Andruil knew the fear of the hunted, the fear of prey.

Then all the world became an inferno.

She knew only the flames.


	3. A Thing Not Yet Known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylaise, whose heat rivals Elgar'nan's light.  
> Sylaise, whose fire cannot be quenched.
> 
> from: Song to Sylaise, author unknown

Mythal felt the rage before she saw it.

It ran deep in the pit of her chest, as old as stone, as unquenchable as the void and sharpened with a grief beyond words. The Goddess of Motherhood had seen much and felt more in her time, but this shocked even her.

Mythal felt the pulse of magic before she saw it.

It rippled over her skin and shivered through her bones. It sang like lightening in her blood. It threw the ocean into the beyond and all the fade screamed. The Goddess of Justice had worked magic and wrought judgement in her time, but this was a furious condemnation even she could not have passed.

Mythal felt the heat of the inferno before she saw it, scorching her back like so many suns.

She had walked through the bowels of the earth. She had tasted of dragon-fire. She had snuffed the flames of Vengeance many times. She was certain she had held the ever-burning stars, in another life. But this heat was beyond all compare. It was sharper, brighter, hungrier. More beautiful than the first dawn and more terrible than the last.

Mythal felt all of this before she turned her head. But once she had turned, she saw it too. The rage, the grief, the flaming pyre. She felt dread pool about her chest and stared intently into the blaze, searching for any sign of her girls within. This devastation should not have happened now, not for many, many years. It was much too soon.

Mythal raced towards the epicenter, and was consumed.

*

Andruil stared numbly at hands that were no more. Not blistered flesh nor charred bones but simply empty space where her limbs should have been. Blinding. Burning. Sylaise was screaming at her, but she couldn’t hear because her ears were all burned away, too.

It was clear to Andruil that she was dead. She had been obliterated by the inferno of her sister’s fury. So why, then, was she still here? How was it that she could see the hungry flames as they ripped around her sister’s form - apart from her but a part of her - white-hot and unforgiving. In its light she witnessed the moon grow dark and saw oceans turned to smoke, but her eyes were ash below feet that no longer stood. It made no sense. It made no sense.

Nothing made any sense beyond the pain.

“You kill everything!” Sylaise screamed. “Why? Why, Andruil?”

The young huntress could not answer; her tongue was cinders on the glassy, molten shore. Somewhere, she heard a dragon cry.

“What do you profit from pain and death?” Sylaise continued. She grew brighter and more terrifying with every word. “What did you stand to gain from slaying a tiny songbird? Is my happiness so abhorrent to you? Do you really hate me that much?!”

Andruil drifted away from the words. She was increasingly unable to form a coherent thought, let alone form any semblance of a reply.

“My child, calm yourself,” she heard her mother’s voice plead. Pleading for her? Oh, how Andruil regretted the poison of her thoughts that evening. She clung to her mother’s words as she’d once clung to her chest as a child, but it did not keep her safe from harm this time. The words were a distant echo below the roaring inferno and Sylaise was beyond consolation.

Sylaise continued. “Sometimes it seems that grieving others is your only joy, sister. You find the misery and fear of smaller creatures so exquisite... It is disgusting. I can bear it no longer.”

Though Andruil did not think it possible, the flames grew brighter. She felt a little more of herself slip away. The taste of fear was bitter on the echo of her tongue. A moment ago it had sickened her; fear was alien to Andruil, unfamiliar. Yet fear would be a warm welcome compared to what she now felt - the dread of those who knew their end was fast approaching.

*

Mythal, meanwhile, fought to keep her barrier intact. Just moments before, the thought that Sylaise might never come into her magic was among the chiefest of her fears. Now, Mythal would give anything to have that small fear back. Already she could feel the fabric of this place tearing itself apart beneath the weight of Sylaise’s anger. If Mythal could not quell this rage, Sylaise could obliterate the continent. Her people had not endured such a cataclysm since Elgar’nan’s battle with his father many ages ago.

Mythal’s feet braced upon the shaking ground and she pushed forward, further into the flames. The rippling heat was unbearable. She forced herself to look beyond the fire but found that she could not, and called upon her dragon for aid. Dragons were among the eldest and most powerful of creatures to roam the land and conquer skies, but even hers could not remain long among her daughter’s flames. She commanded it to eat of the fire, to absorb it or sweep it away with its vast wingbeats, but the creature cried out in pain in the attempt, spread its violet wings and fled.

She was alone.

Mythal edged closer to the centre, reaching out for the shining ball of Sylaise’s pain and fury, and pleaded. “My child,” she cried, “calm yourself.” It was no use. In a world were magic was driven by the strongest will, Mythal found she had not the will to strike out against her own, even in defense of the other. Her youngest, however, had no such reservations at this time. Sweet Sylaise had weighed the value of her sister’s life, and found it wanting. Her judgement: death.

In those early days, the People had strength beyond the skin they wore. They called this their elgar, or spirit. It was the truest form of themselves, a reflection of their nature. Even after taking on flesh, the first of the People retained their spirit, and spirit was notoriously hard to kill. If the body grew old, or damaged, or was lost, the elgar of that person remained to walk the land again, should they so wish, or else was free to roam the realm of dreams. A death of the body seldom meant a death of the spirit. Seldom.

Mythal had seen with her own eyes the fate of spirits too long bound to flesh. She knew they could perish. She knew they could truly die. No spirit, no matter how resillient, was impervious to harm - not even her stubborn, hardy Andruil. Her headstrong, heedless daughter, too wilfull for a favourite but beloved still, had known no life outside of her body. Without it, Mythal did not know how long her spirit would last.

In desperation, Mythal called upon the sea, but it would not answer. She called upon the wind, but it turned away. She called upon the oldest Gods, whoever and wherever they were, but they had fallen silent long before she came to be and they remained silent now. And it was in silence that Mythal stood, helpless in the midst of this inferno, to weep and watch the essence of her firstborn, mote by shining mote of light, fade and flicker away.

*

Sylaise stood amidst the flames. The shoreline had become a galaxy of anger and hurt, and she was the sun. It was a heady power.

“You’ve always despised me,” Sylaise accused, throwing another flare at the shimmering form of her sister’s elgar. It was a glittering, undulating green - bright, like the sun through a canopy of leaves. But it grew darker with each passing second. “Always thought me below your regard. Always thought me weak.”

Another phrase in anger, another flare. Andruil’s form grew darker still.

“Do you still think me weak, sister?”

Sylaise raised her hand and the inferno reached a crescendo in the palm of her hand. She stood firm and took aim. All the cruel words, the taunts, the jokes at her expense... every time Andruil had snubbed her and pushed her aside, every time their father’s eyes had passed over Sylaise with cool indifference in favor of her elder sister... no more.

Sylaise flung the swirling blaze at her sister’s form and -

It scattered into a thousand fireflies that flew into the sky before ever reaching her.

“Wh-what?” Sylaise stuttered.

She tried again, forming another globe of flame and it, too, dispersed before impact with the flickering image of tiny wings. Sylaise howled with frustration and glared at the dimming form of her sister, only to see another figure standing there.

Sylaise’s voice was quiet and uncertain when she asked, “Who are... Where did you come from?”

The figure did not answer, only extended an arm and seemed to dampen the flames. He was small and slight of build - Sylaise thought the boy not much older than herself, in fact. His face was soft, and his eyes were large, dark and grey beneath blue-back hair. There was a shimmer to his pale skin suggesting starlight. There was something familar about him that gave her pause. Eventually, he spoke.

“You are very angry,” he said simply.

Sylaise stiffened. Small hands became fists at her side. “Is that so surprising? After everything she’s done?”

“Your grief is understandable, and pure,” the boy reasoned. “But vengeance is not your domain, and it ill befits you. There is pain enough in the world, without your hands adding to it,” he finished sadly. The cadence of his voice put Sylaise in mind of birdsong, and lips began to tremble for the reminder of what Andruil had so pettily taken from her.

“But... but it’s not fair,” she lamented. Sylaise crumpled to the floor, fat tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. She was only a child, after all, and had always felt things more keenly than most. “She kills everything...”

“And you wish to do the same?”

Sylaise opened her eyes, aghast. “No! No, that is not what I want!”

Then the child looked around and saw, really saw what it was she had done. She was a princess stood atop a pedestal of ashes at the centre of a black and glassy shore. The trees were bone white and skeletal, and where once there was a vast and sparking ocean behind her, only a barren crater remained. The sky weighed down heavily and was furious at her, glowering red and purple. Behind the boy, a faint glimmer of green hovered weakly; Sylaise caught an impression of fear, and a struggle to be. And further in the distance Sylaise saw her mother on her knees, fighting to maintain a barrier against flames that would not relent.

What had she done?

A sense of panic began to rise, and with it the inferno.

“What should I do?” she cried, throwing the boy a panicked look. “How can I make it stop?”

The boy seemed to vanish then, into a flock of night-dark birds that stretched their wings and swept towards her. He materialsed in an instant right before Sylaise, took her hands and pulled her to her feet. His hands were soft, his skin like stars, and a fine silver chain wound around his neck from which dangled... a pearl.

“You’re...!” she breathed.

“Not important right now. Your sister is close to dying, I think. If you want to save what’s left of her, you need to act, and soon.”

“But how?” she blurted, her eyes brimming with tears again. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Remember who you are,” he said, smiling.

Not fear, but love. Not hate, but acceptance. Not rash action, but gentle patience and kindness in all things.

Mythal’s words echoed fainltly in her head but Sylaise felt them fresh, not with praise and love but with a disappointed condemnation.  She had fallen so far from what she should have been in so short a time. She looked upon the ashes of the shore and hated herself. For so long she’d dreamed of being able to do magic like her parents and her sister and now that she had... What had she wrought?

“Oh gods, I’m sorry,” she cried. The flames scuppered away as she ran down the charred beach to her sister’s rapidly fading form. “Andruil, I’m so, so sorry. I was just angry, I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me. Please... don’t die. Don’t let me have killed you.”

*

Mythal closed her eyes with a fatigue she hadn’t felt in many moons. Motherhood was, without a doubt, the most exhausting thing she’d ever embarked upon. Wrenching herself away from the Dreaming and learning to live with it, crafting a place in the Waking for her people to live, bonding with Vengeance... none of it compared to this.

Speaking of Vengeance...

Mythal sighed, opening her eyes to look upon the landscape through the carriage window. Their clear blue reflected the skies which were slowly returning to their natural colour, but in the distance she could still make out swathes of purple and crimson, like a bruise. They’d passed a number of towns and smaller hamlets on the road, each full of inquisitive stangers shaken by the events on the beach; the effects of her daughter’s rage had apparently stretched on for miles. Such a surge of raw power would not have gone unnoticed by the eyes of Vengeance. Mythal wouldn’t be surprised if her dear husband had already amassed his army, preparing to put down the insolent upstart who’d dare to threaten his rule with that display of magical aptitude.

Sylaise twitched in her sleep and Mythal lowered a hand to run soothing fingers through her copper hair. It was safer this way, she reasoned, to keep her daughter sleeping. Magic cast in emotion was the most dangerous kind, and Mythal wished to keep all risk to a minimum until they had arrived. For now, Sylaise slumbered peacefully in her mother’s lap, unaware of the journey they made, unknowing that Andruil slept just across from her in the carriage and had yet to awaken in the four days since their departure. Five, counting the sunset to come.

What a mess. She should have forseen this.

“It’s not your fault.”

Mythal started, almost forgetting the fourth presence in the carriage. She looked around and saw those intolerably large eyes staring up at her.

“Excuse me?”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen,” the boy explained. “No one could.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded, his midnight black hair swaying with the motion like a bolt of silk that stopped just short of grazing his shoulders.

“And just how can you know that, child?” Mythal enquired.

The boy cocked his head to the side, a bird like gesture of confusion. “I just do.”

A breath of mirth escaped her. “You seem to know a great many things, da’len, yet knowledge of your name escapes you?”

The child’s smile was benign as he turned to look out of the window. When he spoke, it was in the same strange manner he had on the beach; he spoke as one who knew far more than his appearance suggested - indeed, as one who knew far more than he should.

“Names are curious and powerful. If given well, they can offer substance to things not yet known. Or else it can diminish a thing until it is nothing more than the name it is called. Names can be used to beckon and banish, both. To lift up, or to condemn.” He turned back to her, his mirroresque eyes round and solemn. “And you can have great power, if you know the true name of things.”

Mythal considered this. “Is that why you won’t give us your name?”

The child was silent for a long time. So long, in fact that Mythal assumed he would not reply at all, and so she turned her attention to the view beyond the window again.

The carriage rounded a bend and Mythal saw the great white spires of Sou’tarasyl’an, Palace of Light, and gasped. From this distance, the palace could usually be seen glittering like a star crowning the mountain. Now, however, it was wreathed with barbs of jagged lightening that split the sky. And below, around the perimeter of the city, a patchwork of red and white - the legions of Vengeance, Mythal assumed. She sighed again.

Elgar’nan was furious, naturally.

Mythal wondered what would become of her daughter when they arrived. In one path, she could see that Elgar’nan would want to be rid of Sylaise entirely, in revenge for trying to kill his beloved little huntress, and to be rid of a rival for his throne. In another, he would seek to have her forged into a weapon of living flame - that would be a dark road for the world to take indeed. The brightest of flames cast the darkest of shadows.

And what of Andruil? Would she recover? Would she demand her sister’s blood?

And the boy? What of him?

There were a great many unknowns.

“Yes. I think that is why,” the boy said, suddenly breaking his silence and her reverie.

“...Why what?” Mythal demanded with a sideways look.

“Why I can’t give you my name,” he said pensively, playing with the pearl about his neck. “...I too am a thing not yet known.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all who have read and/or left Kudos so far. I'd appreciate any comments or feedback you guys have. Am I being too long winded with my description? (Probably. Definitely xD)


	4. The Palace of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Long ago, when time itself was young, the only things in existence were the sun and the land. The sun, curious about the land, bowed his head close to her body, and Elgar'nan was born in the place where they touched."
> 
> \- —From The Tale of Elgar'nan and the Sun, as told by Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish elves.

Mythal stood on the steps before her husband’s throne. The expression on her face was tranquil and benign, offering no hint to the tempest that whirled within. She would not let him know her fear, and held it close to her, so none but she could hear her traitor heart as it hammered a staccato against her ribs.

“What?!” Elgar’nan finally exclaimed. His ever-burning eyes bulged. Mythal could feel the suppressed incredulity rolling off him in waves. Indeed, there were several stray sparks of actual lightning crackling from the end of his staff. “You mean to say that the earth-bending inferno across the seas - that beacon of rage and terrible power - was the runt?”

A cold fury seeped into Mythal’s bones at the words, but she suppressed it. There were a million ways this conversation could go wrong and she would not see a single one of them come to pass.

Silence followed. The hall was lined with Elgar’nan’s warrior-servants, and many of the People were assembled outside, anxious to see what would become of the maker of the blaze. Overhead, spirits of curiosity and prudence, of wisdom, charity and hope flitted and floated about in their myriad of shifting colours. But despite the assemblage, not a sound could be heard. All waited with baited breath to see the outcome.

Sylaise wilted beneath the weight of her father’s gaze. For years she’d dreamed of having the fullness of her father’s attention even once, and now... It seemed she may have her wish, for the first and last time. Small fingers clutched a little tighter around Mythal’s hand.

Elgar’nan stood. He struck the ground with butt of his staff, a clang that echoed all throughout the shining courtroom. And then...

He began to laugh.

It was a deep and rumbling laugh, like thunder in Mythal’s own chest. The spirits quivered with the sound of it. After a while, he dispatched the guards with a wave.

“Come here, girl,” Elgar’nan beckoned, casting his arms wide. She ran to him, relieved, and he scooped Sylaise up and sat her on his knee. “Well, what a secret you have kept from us,” he scolded, tapping her nose in mock displeasure.

Mythal melted with relief. For a moment, he shed the skin of a vengeful warrior-king and appeared as nothing more than a doting father. The transformation was wonderful.

“I didn’t know I could do it, either,” Sylaise protested, smiling brightly in the light of her father’s attention. As young as she was, she could not contain her sendings and so her feelings bathed the room with warmth. “It was a secret kept from me too.”

“Worse still,” Elgar’nan said gravely, “for the lies we tell ourselves can reap nothing but pain and sorrow.”

“Wise words, my love,” Mythal intoned, stepping up to the throne. She smiled wryly, remembering his face in her hands beneath a lightless sky long, long ago. “One wonders where you might have heard them.”

Elgar’nan laughed again, in that booming way of his. The chandelier tinkled, its crystals chiming with his mirth. “I recall I heard them many moons since past, from a wise and beautiful soul, indeed. Hm, what was she called again?”

Mythal swatted him. He caught her hand and kissed its fingers. “You jest,” she said. And then she sighed. “Andruil has yet to wake. I worry for her.”

“Don’t,” Elgar’nan dismissed. “She is a hardy, stubborn thing. She will wake, and there will be the void to pay when she does. I hope you are prepared,” he directed at Sylaise.

Sylaise shrank again. “I do not wish her harm,” she stuttered, shaking her head frantically. Mythal could feel her panic rising.

“And yet she will wish you-”

“Hush,” Mythal interrupted in consoling tones. “There will be no fighting.”

Elgar’nan levelled her with a gaze. “Andruil will demand reparations, as she well should.”

“Sylaise, my sweet, collect your _da’ean_ * and go play in the gardens,” Mythal said, scooping her off her father’s knee and placing her on the palace floor. When she was away, Mythal continued. “Are not both of your daughters beloved? You would instigate violence between the two?”

“Mythal,” Elgar’nan sighed. He gave her a sending of his rising frustrations. “There must be retribution -”

“Justice has already been served, my heart,” Mythal affirmed, and the endearment had the feeling of a threat. She gave her own sending in return, the image of wizened oak that would not bend or break, an impression of endurance, of defiance. “Sylaise was wronged first, and for nothing more than a pique of jealousy. Her reaction, though extreme, was not without cause. And if you saw how she laboured to make amends...”

Mythal then passed him another sending, with her remembrance of the night and Sylaise’s telling of it. She showed Elgar’nan the aftermath, too. The image of Sylaise kneeling on the ashen beach, an unending stream of tears down her cheeks. Her skin growing pale with the strain of Making. Andruil’s newly knit body, lying on the barren shore. The forest-green glimmer of her elgar as Sylaise coaxed it in. And that strange boy, guiding Sylaise’s magic, teaching her how, with all the patience of eternity.

“There is no need for vengeance this time, my love. We are none of us above mistakes. We forgive, and then move on. Such is the way of our future.”

Elgar’nan levelled her with his burning eyes, but already she could see him relenting. Furious and insaitiable though his anger could be, he was not immune to reason. Not in those days. Mythal ran a hand over his head - his braided locks the same burning, beloved shade of copper that Sylaise had inherited - and she felt him back down.

“Intolerable woman,” Elgar’nan sighed. Then stood. “The other child,” he started. “What became of him? And from where did he come?”

Mythal grew tense. “The boy is a mystery. I admit, I do not know what or who he is, and it seems neither does he. As to what became of him...” Mythal hesitated. He was unlike anything she had encountered before. Had she adverted one threat only to raise another? She shook her head. “Come.”

Elgar’nan raised an eyebrow to being ordered around his own palace. Mythal caught an impression of amused displeasure.

She looked sardonically over her shoulder, and feigned the smallest of bows. “I believe we shall find them in the gardens, if it pleases you, my Lord,” she mocked. Her blue eyes danced.

There was another rumbling laugh. “Very well. Come, then. To the gardens,” he affirmed, and strode off ahead of her.

*

Sylaise was enamoured of the magic he wrought.

They lay below the boughs of an old sylvan tree. Its rust-red branches were bare and vivid against the pale sky. The boy - her da’ean - waved an effortless hand, and the tree itself began to bloom with white-light bud. They twinkled like stars that soon became a full cosmos of light. Its multitude of colours refracted all across the inner courtyard. Seasons spanned within a few breaths and soon the leaves of light were falling, sending an autumnal cascade of shooting stars into Sylaise’s outstretched palms. Her skin tingled where they touched.

“Again!” she cried with delight. When the leaves had bloomed and began to fall again, she stood and spun about on her toes.

Elgar’nan and Mythal watched beneath the shadows of the inner-walkway.

“So, this is the one.” The All-Father surveyed the pair with his piercing gaze, and folded his arms.

Mythal nodded. “You feel it, too, do you not?”

“He hides it well,” Elgar’nan replied, “but there is a gravity there. His childlike shell belies an ancient soul.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far, but yes. The child is more than he seems.” Mythal felt the worry tug at her spine, but still could not stifle the smile as it came to her lips at the sight of the boy’s gentle instruction. He seemed to take a great joy in sharing his knowledge of how to spin the energies of their world. With his guidance, Sylaise transformed a fallen leaf into a butterfly whose iridescent wings shimmered with warmth enough to make the first flame weep. Mythal felt its echo on her cheek with every wing-beat.

“Just how has he kept such power hidden for so long... And why?” Elgar’nan scrutinised the boy through narrowed eyes, and grumbled. “I do not trust him.”

“You do not trust anyone.”

“Precisely. I have forged the safety of these shores on such, and it shall be maintained in the same manner. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival.”

“Peace, husband. I have seen no such thing.”

Elgar’nan rounded his burning eyes on her, then. Amber, and impossibly bright, like staring into the heart of the sun itself. “And what is it that you have seen?” he demanded.

Away from the temple, its peace and tranquillity, and her followers, with everything that had happened in so short a time... “Little,” Mythal replied quietly. “Less than I would like. But nothing of threat, of that much I am certain. The boy is simply a mystery. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Elgar’nan made a noise that was akin to a growl. “I despise mysteries.”

Mythal’s answering chuckle died in her throat. “I am aware.”

Mysteries.

Now there was something. Perhaps a journey west was in order.

“Father, Father!” Sylaise came bounding towards them both, her fists full of shining leaves. “Look what I can do!”

Sylaise cupped her hands together, and her face scrunched up with concentration. After a few moments, she thrust the leaves upwards and into the air, but they were leaves no longer. Several tiny butterflies of living flame lilted on the breeze around Elgar’nan’s head.

“Now that is pretty trick,” he said, picking the girl up and sitting her on his knee.

_“Ajuelan*_  taught me!” she beamed.

Elgar’nan’s eyebrows rose at the name. Creator. Mythal caught an impression of rage before he stifled it, and turned his face into a mildly inquisitive mask. “Is that what he’s calling himself, now?” Elgar’nan asked.

Sylaise laughed. “He doesn’t call himself anything. So, I decided to do the calling instead,” she said brightly.

“I see,” Mythal said, as Elgar’nan had taken to glaring again. Mythal beckoned for him to come forward.

“Can he stay, father? Please, can he?” Sylaise began to ask in earnest. “He could teach me more about magic. He already helped me to heal Andruil. Perhaps he can help her to wake up, too. Oh, please let him stay.”

Elgar’nan ignored her questions as the boy approached. In such proximity, the weight of his being was more pronounced. It was the weight of age, of a long existence; Mythal imagined longer even than theirs. But were they not among the first to walk upon the earth? To tear themselves away from the dreaming and into the unformed, unforged matter of the land? Mythal was mildly unsettled by this feeling and its implications. Elgar’nan, however, was insulted.

“Enough games, child. Speak.”

The boy whom Sylaise called Ajulan cast a puzzled look up at the All-Father, his already too-large eyes grew wider. “And say what?” he enquired, innocently.

“I am Elgar’nan, All-Father. First-born of the Sun, conqueror of its fury, and ruler of this Kingdom.” His staff began to crackle and spark in time with the cadence of his speech. “I have not my wife’s patience, nor my daughter’s frivolity, and I am not a being with whom you want to play games. Now tell me, who are you, and what do you seek by coming here?”

Ajuelan cocked his head to the side, bird-like in his confusion. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand your question, All-Father and First-born,” he supplied politely in vaguely musical tones. A hand rose to fiddle with the blunt-edge of hair that grazed his shoulder. With that small gesture, and his simple garb of grey cotton and black cloak, barefoot upon the gleaming stones of the palace gardens, he appeared as little more than child: friendless, and lost in more than one sense of the word. “I am just myself. Nothing more. I am sorry if this frightens you.”

Elgar’nan’s eyes bulged for the second time that morning. “I fear you?” And he laughed, but this time the sound was cruel, and accompanied by the blazing of his staff. He began to raise it in the air. Mythal felt the energies of the fade about them grow tense, preparing for the white-heat of his rage.

“Elgar’nan, peace,” Mythal began, and went to pull the staff from his hands, but it was too late.

There was a blinding whip of light, a thunderous crack. Mythal brought up a hand to shield against its light. She heard Sylaise scream, and felt dread pool about her stomach at the thought of fighting against another inferno. But there was no inferno. There was no scent of smoke, nor shifting of ashes.

When Mythal looked up, the garden was as pristine and shining as it had been a moment ago, and there was no evidence of Elgar’nan’s thunder-clap of fury upon the ground.

Not even upon the boy.

Sylaise had run to him, a fleeting effort to save him from the lightning-slap.

It would not have done much, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her little bird being struck down a second time. It just wasn’t fair. So she’d thrown her arms about his waist, eyes squeezed shut tight, to protect him from the blow. It was the boy who saved them both. Ajuelan’s arms were outstretched, and between his palms a tiny, whirling ball of light twitched, trying to find release. He cocked his head to the side again and studied it, as though trying to decide what to make of it. Apparently having come to a decision, he threw it into the air.

That’s when Sylaise opened her eyes again.

The skied above them erupted into a myriad of colour, ephemeral auroras of every hue; shifting pearls and pinks and greens, deepest blue and palest orange. There was a peace in watching the things he made come to pass, and in his creating of them too. And somewhere deeper than that, a faint glimmer of... joy. “ _Ajuelanehn*_ ,” Sylaise whispered.

After the momentary shock of realising Elgar’nan’s spell had been averted, and her daughter spared, Mythal grew furious.

“Leave us,” the All-Mother whispered. Though the gardens in the courtyard were vast, her sending carried through to every servant, petitioner and spirit that happened to be milling around. Leave, with all haste.

She turned to Elgar’nan, who himself was breathing heavily, owing more to surprise than anything else. “You impulsive, reckless, hot-headed fool!” she berated, eyes flashing with horror.

“Do not insult me, Mythal,” he began in defence of himself.

“You insult me, Elgar’nan. And you insult yourself,” Mythal chastised sharply. “You could have killed our daughter!”

His momentary cloud of rage seemed to evaporate then, and Elgar’nan seemed to really see the sight before him. Sylaise, small and frightened, beneath the arms of the boy, in the very spot he had trained his bolt to land. Mythal thought she caught something in the air akin to remorse. It was quickly suppressed.

“You cannot rain fire upon each and every thing that does not align with your desires, husband,” Mythal spoke, and sternly. “Or else you will be a ruler of nothing but ash.”

“I have heard this lecture before,” he growled, still clinging to his stubbornness and pride in the face of his uncertainty.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Mythal retorted. “One wonders when you will listen.”

Elgar’nan sighed, and stuck the blade of his staff into the ground. It slid through the shimmering rock as easily as the finest sand. He then tried, and failed, to take Mythal by the elbow. Instead, she lead the way to a sheltered alcove, where he began in earnest whispers.

“The boy is a threat, Mythal.”

Mythal dismissed his concerns with a sound that was something like a snort. It was perhaps, ungraceful, but she was not in the mood to care. She replied in scathing tones. “If not for him, there is every likelihood that you will have found yourself bereft not only of Andruil, but Sylaise and myself, as well. Sylaise could have burned us all into the Beyond, of that I have no doubt.” She repressed a shiver at the memory of helplessness. It was not a feeling she would like to encounter ever again. “He is a threat to nothing but your pride.”

“My pride is not my concern at present,” he replied, with rising frustration.

“Your concern is that he was right,” Mythal shot back. “You fear him. And what he may be capable of.”

“Of course I fear him! Who can say what he may be capable of!” Elgar’nan spat, beginning to pace. “Quakes are coming to my borders from below with increasing frequency, and tensions are rising with Geldauran to the east. My people are beginning to know fear. The last thing I need is this child-like interloper with magical prowess to rival our own to threaten my rule from the inside -”

“Elgar’nan,” Mythal began. Though she was still furious with him, her tones slowly changed, becoming more placating in the face of his rising anger. It would benefit no one for their tempers to clash now. “Elgar’nan. The boy is a threat to nothing,” she repeated. “And he has saved our Sylaise’s life twice, now. You do a disservice to that fact alone by believing otherwise.”

“You have said yourself, you know nothing of where he came. How can we know he is to be trusted?”

“We wait,” she answered simply.

Elgar’nan shook his head. “Mythal, it is not in me to sit by and do nothing. Action must be taken.”

“Then I shall be the one to take it,” she replied, remembering an earlier train of thought. “I leave tomorrow, at dawn, with the boy. We shall go west.”

“West...” Elgar’nan began, slow to comprehend her meaning. And then, “West. You can’t be serious.”

“I am not in a joking mood, dear husband,” Mythal replied. “You distrust the boy because he is a mystery to us, and there is one far better versed in the mysteries of this world than I.”

“Yes, but... I don’t trust him, either.”

The comment actually drew a laugh from Mythal’s chest. Elgar’nan, All-Father, First-born of the Sun and ruler of the Elvhen, was sulking. 

“You do not trust anyone,” she echoed, the beginnings of a smile playing about her lips. Any hint of mirth, however, was met with equal measures of sadness. “A condition in you I dearly hope to remedy, some day.”

* * *

  _Da’ean - little bird_

_Ajuelan - creator / crafter / artist_

_Ajuelanehn - “Crafts with joy”. From: ‘aju’ - create; ‘elan’ added to a noun to create an agent (create - creator); and ‘nehn’ - joy._

_June - Diminuitive form of Ajuelanehn._

* * *

  **A/N:** Hi! Sorry the update for this has been so long in the waiting. Teaching placement and deadlines have me like, dead. Anyway, hope everyone had a lovely christmas and start to the new year. Hopefully, this will be the year. The year they announce D4. I need my closure from that damn egg. 

Peace and love!

~ Indie x


End file.
